Regret
by chessboards
Summary: Soon, Clove will sit on a lone rock deep in the mossy forest, her promises and dreams gone. She will regret; she will regret every choice she has ever made, regret trust, regret her career, regret hoping, regret dreaming, regret seeing the possibility of a life, regret loving. Regret everything that has come to pass. The fates are cruel. And their story is no different.


**I'm sorry for the late update. I have a life, and it's not in my favor. Someday, I will update my multi-chapter stories, but it's not this day, unfortunately. I have no time for anything anymore with school, so I'm sorry if this is crap. Anyways, this is my first Hunger Games story, possibly AU; it has been a long time since I read Hunger Games. Before you read, I will say this: I am in no way hating on Glimmer, but this is from Clove's POV, so obviously, there will be negative thoughts. I also had no time to check this over, thus excuse the errors.  
**

* * *

Regret:

* * *

"Clove."

How he can turn that simple name into a haunting melody, one that not even the most skilled musician can make out of the most fine-tuned lyre or harp.

"Yes?" she replies, turning around to face him. How slender she is compared to him, how frail next to his oxen build, strong and sturdy. Without realizing, Clove's lips curl into a snarl, promising herself that even if she is the shortest and the weakest, she will someday be the most deadliest, bringing pride to her district.

* * *

_I am born to kill, born to fight. A fighter cannot bow down to an obstacle, nor is a fighter weak._

Those words she repeats to herself, making a silent promise, a silent vow.

There are things that are not said when telling the legend of Clove and Cato. Clove's life is based on lies and deceptions, of a mother she would not know, of an abusive father discarded as a disabled man. Clove's classmates frown down on her, but she works the hardest out of all to become the greatest, works until her face is drenched with sweat and teeth grinding against another–

Even the greatest can fall.

* * *

"The reaping is tomorrow, Clove."

"I know, Cato. I am no child hiding from dangers, hunting lizards by the light of a torch for a mere game. I know of the real _game._ I also know I am old enough."

Cato snickers. "You think you stand a chance? You wouldn't last five seconds out there."

"Yes, I would. I've trained all my life for this. If I get reaped, I will face whatever I face, and I will do whatever it takes to win." Clove snarls, adding an afterthought. "Even if it means killing you to get the crown, Cato."

"Bet you your father said the same thing."

Snarling like a leopard, Clove leapt on top of the older, taking him by surprise. Fumbling with her dagger, Clove pins Cato against the ground. Less than a second later, she places the dagger against his throat.

"Don't you dare say a word against my father, do you hear me?"

Without waiting for a reply, Clove stalks off, head held high in the air. _A warrior is not weak,_ she chants to herself, a song, a nursery rhyme.

* * *

She isn't chosen. Her name isn't picked from the sphere of a thousand others. Clove almost exhales out of relief, but with all the other girls around her, she dares not. Being afraid is something the young Career would never admit out loud or to herself. Glancing over towards the boys, she saw Cato among them, an expression of disappointment on his face, the sun turning his hair gold. Clove automatically straightens as he looks her way, acting confident and scorning the tributes on the podium.

* * *

The sword clatters out of his hand; a second of hesitation had let her win. She smiles at him, lips curving upward in a taunt, a small rush of victory that she had beaten someone three years older. Cato returns the smile, but instead, it is a promise, a threat, and possibly something more.

* * *

Clove and Cato fall into a routine, practicing sword against knife, spear against dagger, strength against cleverness. Soon, they form a reputation of being the best team District Two can possibly wish for. She is still cautious though; cautious of what Cato might be thinking, what his next feint might be, and the next feint within feint within feint. Clove is brought up to distrust everyone, in an environment where she is forced to realize the feints within feints, where her cunningness is more value than strength, unlike the other Careers where strength dominates the battle. The brunette is cunning, and her blonde partner is strength. Together, they were undefeatable warriors.

And for once – Clove begins to trust, her first mistake, like the falling of pebbles leading to a big rockslide, the forming of destruction.

* * *

Clove is not beautiful, nor will she ever be, but she has the capability to make men melt at the sight of a smile, a laugh. A smile is a treasure, and if used too many times, loses its purpose. The young girl hardly talks, her face set in stone, her eyes fierce. But when her lips curve upward and the years of worrying and hardship fade away, Cato tends to forget that she is only a fighting partner. Instead, he sees her as something more.

* * *

Taking their usual route back home from the training center, the two Careers race each other down the street, one's step heavy and the one's step as light as a gazelle, laughing.

The two came to a stop momentarily, out of breath and laughing.

It is when Cato's lips meet hers that Clove feels like floating, giddy with excitement. Her delicate fingers curl around his rough, calloused hands. It is then when she makes her first request, "Stay with me."

He nods, making a promise to the girl he kissed on a warm summer night, a vow she remembers, a promise that seals their doom and completes the puzzle which is fate, a promise–

The fates are cruel.

Their story is no different.

* * *

A name appears from the sphere, and even before it is called out, Clove knew it was hers. Even after years of training and knife throwing lessons, she is still afraid, a little girl at heart. She is only fifteen…too young, always too young to be a warrior, always too young. Clove stamps on that fear, braces herself, makes her face devoid of emotion before climbing the stone steps to the podium, where the Capitol man greeted her. She curls her lip at him, refusing to take his hand, an expression of scorn plaintive on her narrow face. Looking out onto the crowds, the tribute held her head high, chanting in her mind. _A warrior is not weak. I am a warrior; I was born to kill; I was born to win, born to draw blood and throw knives. I am not weak._

Clove distinctly hears a name being called, the male tribute, but she doesn't listen. Instead, she prepares herself to shake his hand, to squeeze the life out of him, a gesture to show her strength. _I may be small, but I am cunning._

"I volunteer!" The voice echoes through crowd, loud and clear.

Cato.

She is surprised, and even more surprised when Cato mounts the stage, steps heavy. A look of protection is on his face, a fierce look of passion a brother might give to his sister. The look on his face says as clear as the sky. _I promised, and I will keep that promise._

* * *

"Wow," he whispers into her ear, awe gleaming in his eyes.

Racks and racks of projectiles lean casually against the wall, points bristling, waiting for a commander. Knives of every sort hang on wall while weighs pile up near. The swords polish gleam in the light and target dummies sit nearby. Clove saw some weak little twelve-year-olds from District Six eyeing the paints, drumming their fingers and chewing their lips nervously. She sneers, knowing they would not last a minute out in the arena.

* * *

She met Glimmer that afternoon during their lunch break. The fair-haired girl sits across from her, eating casually. Clove never took her eyes off the District One tribute, and sees her giggling, smiling seductively at Cato. In the one or two seconds she glances at Clove, the brunette interprets disgust and a hint of envy glittering in her eyes, blue and clear as the ocean. The young girl curls her lip at the older, showing plaintively her disgust at the other. Glimmer sees this, and her eyes flash violently, a warning and a promise in them. _Just wait…_ they seem to say. In response, Clove tips her head a fraction, accepting the challenge, surprising the blonde.

* * *

"Good luck."

Clove nods at her partner, giving him a hint of a smile before turning around to enter the training center, where the judges evaluate every tribute.

_Clove…from District Two…ten…_

Clove exhales, smirking at the screen. A ten is good; a ten is definitely good. Glimmer had gotten an eight, and Clove silently ponders on the smug look she would wear upon their next meeting.

_Eleven…_

Eleven? Clove bolts upright, nearly knocking into Cato, digging in her ears from disbelief. Slowly, comprehending the situation, Clove's jealously begins to boil. The judges gave a pathetic piece of trash an _eleven._ Elevens were meant for the deadliest Careers, only obtained by those of Districts One and Two, impossible for an outcast of District Twelve, only in the competition to save her sister. The brunette vows to herself that she will kill Katniss Everdeen at the first chance, that her canon blast will sound right after bloodbath.

It is yet another empty promise.

Soon, Clove will sit on a lone rock deep in the mossy forest, her promises and dreams gone. She will regret; she will regret every choice she has ever made, regret trust, regret her career, regret hoping, regret dreaming, regret seeing the possibility of a life, regret loving. Regret everything that has come to pass.

* * *

"ONE."

The beeper sounds, and the tributes are off. Clove sprints towards the cornucopia, reaching it before anybody else. She scrambles over tents, grabbing knives of every sort. An arrow whistles past her ear, and she suspects the work of a certain female tribute from District One.

This was her element, this was the time to show off her skills to the game makers, time to show them that they were wrong about Ms. Girl On Fire.

She sees Glimmer hacking away at another tribute, blood spewing everywhere; Cato brandishing his sword, gutting another boy. She runs past them, hurling her knife at a boy holding on to a backpack. Sneering as he fell, Clove sees Katniss emerge, eyes wide with fear. Throwing her knife with the force, strengthened with her hate, Clove waits to see Katniss gag on her own blood, waits to see her knife sink into her neck and deliver the final blow.

It never came, and Clove is again, thwarted.

* * *

"Cato, dear…"

Clove sticks her knife into the ground, her grip tightening on the handle. The sickly sound of Glimmer's voice made her want to throw up. She was nothing but a pretty face, nothing under that veil of beauty, nothing but vainness. She couldn't hunt, she couldn't shoot straight, she couldn't run fast, and she couldn't outwit even the dullest knife in her collection. Clove cannot ever be that beautiful, this she knows. Clove cannot make men bow with a simple arch of eyebrows. Clove cannot adapt to sweet smiles and words. Clove cannot find the need for attention, for the need to quirk her lips. Clove cannot be anything like Glimmer, not in a million years–

But she can dream.

And watching Cato, the boy she has kissed and fought with, wiped the sweat from his brow and encouraged and advised, watching him frolic with a vain tribute from District One…Clove's dreams, just like all other dreams, can shatter. Dreams and hopes are fragile.

* * *

"Run!"

Bees circle Clove, biting and buzzing. Her mind was turmoil, spinning from the pain. She hears Glimmer screaming, hears her begging for Cato to help, begging and begging like a dog, like the useless veil of beauty she was. Soon, her sobs stop, meaning only one thing.

Cato shows no indifference after the death of Glimmer, and the brunette finds this infuriating.

_You obviously loved her,_ she thought bitterly. _You loved her. You _loved_ her. Why do you not mourn her? Have you no feelings, no emotions, no sense? How would it be if I, the girl you've made promises and kissed on warm summer nights, how would you feel if I died? Will you mourn then? Or will you remain indifferent…_

Clove's lip curls upward into a sneer, her eyes hard and cold.

* * *

"Two victors may be crowned…_if_ they originate from the same district."

Clove shows no difference on the outside, but her interest bubbles. _Two victors. Two. Two victors may go home to District Two. _She shoots a glance at Cato, who is smiling, his hair as golden as the rising sun. And slowly, unconsciously, Clove faintly returns the smile.

* * *

Their plan is simple. Clove is at the cornucopia, waiting for Katniss while Cato sneaks around, trying to find the other tributes. For the first time since the Games started, Clove begins to hope. Hope that their plan would succeed, hope that they will both live to see the familiar trees of District Two, hope that they will be crowned, hope that she will return a victor, not a small girl, hope that their fates will–

The fates are cruel.

* * *

"Cato! Cato! _CATO!_"

A rock smashes into her temple, strong arms slam her into the metal cornucopia, and blood fills her mouth, tasting like metal. She is frozen with fear, frozen in pain, unable to unsheathe a knife and defend.

_No, no, no… _she thinks, _Cato!_

After the footsteps fade, after the pain becomes unbearable, after her voice is hoarse from screaming, new thoughts settle in. _So this is how it ends… I've wasted my life on a boy who will never love me back, wasted. Why do you want to hurt me?_

A familiar face rises from the mist, a pale face with features as fine as a statue. Distinctly hearing the words issuing from his mouth, Clove's eyes catch sight of the tear rolling from his sky-blue eyes. And in that moment, Clove realizes. She shakes her head, begging him to go, to kill Katniss, to become a victor, to avenge her death.

_I'm lost, _she tries to say, _and I can't be saved. I can't be saved. Go, Cato…_

Black spots grow in her field of vision, blocking his face. She yearns to reach out and stroke his golden hair, to wipe the tears from his eyes, to tell him it's okay, to say those three magic words, to–

It's already too late.

"_Thank you," _he says, his voice cracked from pain.

And Clove flashes him a smile brighter than the sun, brighter than any smile she would ever give to any other.

"I love you" carries too much weight for such little words, thrown around so carelessly. "Thank you" is a much better wording for what the two felt for each other.

There are still times when Cato dreams of a girl with black hair and dark eyes, darting around in the woods, singing a long-forgotten tune with words as graceful as a leaping gazelle. He calls out, he chants her name, he begs for her to turn around, and he chases after her until he is out of breath. But not once she turns.

"I loved you," he whispers into the blackness, bitterly regretting saying those words in past tense.

* * *

This is their story.

* * *

**Reviews will be kindly appreciated. CC and flames alike are more than welcome. Again, I apologize if it was crap, riddled with errors, or if it seemed like a Glimmer-bashing story.**

**IMPORTANT EDIT: an amazing author named aesthetic promises and I have been chatting, and we realized the similarities between our stories, even though they were both written prior to any knowledge of the other. Because I was a lazy bum, I forgot about this story and posted it after she posted hers. Thus, I'm giving her all the credits.  
**


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